


Clarity

by thereyoflight



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amortentia, Black Hermione Granger, Bringing Diversity to Harry Potter One Work at a Time, Crushes, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, First Kiss, Hogwarts, Hogwarts Sixth Year, Inspired by Fanart, Internal Conflict, Kissing, May Or May Not Be Continued, One Shot (Possibly), Person of Color Hermione Granger, Quidditch, Secret Admirer, Secret Crush, Temporarily Unrequited Love, Unrequited Crush, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:27:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24293584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thereyoflight/pseuds/thereyoflight
Summary: In their sixth year, during Gryffindor's celebration of their Quidditch win against Slytherin, Draco Malfoy comes across Hermione Granger in a rather heartbroken state over a certain red-headed wizard. The pair share a surprising connection in the midst of their not-so-secret brimming romance.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, dramione
Comments: 4
Kudos: 111





	Clarity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rednblackdiamonds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rednblackdiamonds/gifts).



> For Katy,  
> Thank you for your endless support. It means the world to me.

Hermione pushed past the swarm of bodies surrounding her, a lump in her throat as she attempted to push back the tears threatening to spill from her eyes. She quickened her steps and managed to step out of the Gryffindor common room before any tears fell onto her cheeks. She leaned back against the wall and her hand came up to cover her mouth to silence her sobs. Her chest tightened painfully at what she had witnessed just moments before: Ron kissing Lavender with reckless abandon. She always told herself she’d never care too much when both Ron and Harry got on with their love lives, but she had never expected one to hurt so deeply. As smart and clever as she was, she had never expected to be so  _ stupid _ when it came to her own feelings.

And now, it was far too late.

Hermione stalked down the stairs and blinked away the tears blurring her vision to find her way down without managing to somehow hurt herself more. She finally reached the bottom step and sat down in defeat, tucking her knees to her chest. The hallway was deserted and quiet, and she could hear the thrum of the celebration happening in the common room up the steps. Each shout and shrill of music felt like an insult, a harsh string of words telling her she should’ve known better. Maybe she should’ve. 

Nothing hurt worse than the vicious twist in one’s heart when the realization came that the love they felt was an unrequited one. 

No one knew that better than Draco Malfoy himself.

Draco Malfoy had no idea why he found himself near the Gryffindor Tower, though he couldn’t say he was necessarily surprised. The Slytherin Quidditch team had lost terribly earlier, and he knew the Gryffindors were celebrating their victory. He knew that the stress and fear he’d been subjected to throughout the year was affecting his focus in both his studies and Quidditch. It was saddening that things that were normally his escape were no longer able to bring him peace. Sleep could not even bring him rest because of the vivid nightmares he had nearly every night that made his eyes look dark and sullen with tiredness. It was why he stalked the dark halls of Hogwarts at night in an attempt to try to get out of his head and preoccupy himself with something, and these long walks he took usually left him in places in the castle that he didn’t know how he got to. 

As he approached the Gryffindor Tower, he heard distant sniffles. Curious and confused, Draco silently followed the sound. He peered into the room leading to Gryffindor Tower, and what he saw both stunned and touched him. Hermione Granger was seated on the bottom step of the staircase, and she was crying. He considered leaving, feeling as if he had intruded on a private moment, but he couldn’t seem to move. He found himself stepping away from the hidden shadows, and before he could realize what a terrible mistake he was making, Hermione’s eyes had already fallen over him.

Just a moment before, in the midst of her falling tears, Hermione had thought inexplicably of Draco Malfoy. She remembered how her eyes had followed Ron’s movements at the Gryffindor goalposts, holding her breath in nervousness. She remembered how her eyes caught at another figure in the sky--a bolting, green blur. She had known who it was, of course, as Harry Potter trailed behind him. Her thoughts raced then. She observed him from afar, and though he was nothing more than hazy lines from where she sat, she could see his features as clear as day in her mind. 

Hermione’s mind had formed his figure and features from memory. There was his white-blond hair, slicked back perfectly, with the same stubborn, small strand of hair hanging over his forehead. She could see his bright, blue eyes, as striking as the ocean. His features seemed burned to her memory: his high cheekbones, the shape of his face, the perfect curves and rounds to his nose, the outline of his mouth curved into that familiar devilish grin. She realized this excellent recall of his physical features was due to the  _ completely innocent _ stolen glances she’d given him throughout the year. And yet, seeing him hurtle at lightning speed across the sky left her admiring him and imagining the firm muscle she knew was present beneath his Quidditch uniform. Suddenly afraid of the realization forming in her mind, coupled with her knowledge of what she’d smelled in the love potion earlier in the year, her eyes had found Ron’s figure in the sky once again, ignoring the itch that became a gnawing to take one final glance at Malfoy.

Now, as she took in his appearance so much closer, it was as if her thoughts had conjured up his presence from her memory alone.

But even as the thought crossed her mind, she knew it couldn’t possibly be true; the version of him that she saw in her mind paled in comparison with the terrible beauty of his true physicality. 

Draco felt held down by her gaze, and his heart raced underneath the touch of her eyes. Her beautiful, warm eyes. Her skin seemed to glow in the moonlight, and it reminded him of honey and brown sugar, the warmth and sweetness of it all. Her dark curls were free from a top knot or any other restraints, and it cascaded over her shoulders in a way that nearly left him breathless. Her beauty struck him so deeply that he was left feeling insecure in her presence.

It was true that Draco had deep, hidden feelings for the witch. He had come to realize them years prior, especially so during the night of the Yule Ball when he had been unable to take his eyes off her. It was rather tragic that she hated him so much because he had grown fond of her. He often found himself searching for her in crowded classrooms just to see her again, even for a fleeting moment. His eyes always lingered over her when she answered a question brilliantly, as she usually did, because it gave him a reason to look at her. A reason to admire her again in a stolen moment that no one would notice. 

They hadn’t interacted as much as he had secretly hoped except for a handful of moments that went by too quickly for his liking. There was one particular moment earlier in the year in one of Slughorn’s first classes that caused his heart to race every time he thought of it. They were learning about love potions, and Hermione had detailed that they smelled differently to each person according to what attracts them. 

Hermione had remembered the incident incredibly well, frustratingly enough.

“For example,” she had said, “I smell freshly mown grass, new parchment, and spearmint… toothpaste.” Hermione felt her cheeks burn, and she quickly made the connection to Ron, but another set of smells emerged from the potion. “Peppermint and… lemon tart… and…” She sucked in a breath, mentally identifying where she had smelled those things before. “Snow.”

Hermione’s eyes had drifted to Draco’s in guilt and embarrassment. His eyes, suddenly dark, had met hers. She held back a gasp, sure he had recognized her words, and turned away from him. 

“What do you smell, Draco?” Pansy Parkinson had asked, her voice light. 

He had known then that Pansy liked him, but he had never been more disinterested. His mind and heart were in a frenzy over the fact that Hermione Granger had smelled things associated with him in Amortentia--alongside Weasley, he was certain, but that's besides the point.  _ Him. _ At a nudge from Parkinson, he had been brought back to reality. He stepped closer to the potion, both out of curiosity and to entertain the poor girl, and took a sniff. 

“I smell… old books, ink, and... lavender shampoo,” he observed, and his eyes immediately found Hermione’s in recognition. He remembered the smell of lavender from her hair when she pushed past him in a classroom once, and the smell of old books and ink was more than obvious. Surprisingly, Hermione’s eyes were on him once again, and he could see the faint redness in her cheeks against her coffee-colored skin. She covered the ink stains on her hands and tore her eyes from his.

The only other exchange that had happened between them was during a trip to Hogsmeade. Draco had entered the Three Broomsticks with the plan to plant the necklace that would later be taken by Katie Bell, nearly killing her in the process. A part of far too many sickening trials Voldemort forced him under to prove his worth for the mission he was appointed, one he was sure he’d never be able to complete. He had tried to convince himself otherwise and that he was capable of what he was chosen for, but he knew it was a lie.

He had entered the crowded restaurant, and his eyes nearly immediately fell over Hermione’s past the staircase. She was drinking butterbeer at a table with Harry and Ron, as usual, but for once, Draco had barely noticed them. The way Hermione had been looking at him then, full of concern, made the guilt inside him become even more unbearable. She hadn’t known what he was about to do, but when it came to light, as all things did, she’d only see him for what he truly was: a monster. 

Hermione’s heart warmed at the sight of him now, finding his sudden presence similar to one of a knight in shining armor. Not that she needed saving, but she supposed the possible comfort wouldn’t hurt. When had her perspective of him changed so dramatically? She skimmed through her memory, but she couldn’t place a specific moment. She forced icy words past her lips. “Come to gloat, have you?” she asked from the foot of the stairs. 

Draco’s heart twisted at the words, and he cringed that she thought such things about him. He hadn’t been as kind to her as he should have over the years, and it was painful to know that her resentment towards him was all his own doing. The truth of the matter was that he didn’t know how to act around things he couldn’t have, one of them being a friendship with her. He supposed it was why he was a Slytherin since he was so accustomed to getting what he wanted. Except the things that truly mattered.

Vicious words threatened to spill from his lips, but they died in his throat. It was as if there was an invisible force to her presence, reaching out and pulling down the facade he usually hid behind. He couldn’t shake the vulnerability that overcame him.

“Less likely than you’d think, Granger,” he replied softly, and his voice sounded foreign to him. Hermione didn’t reply. “What is it?”

Hermione was surprised at the gentleness of his voice, and she nearly closed her eyes at the solace she found in his words. Even so, out of habit, harshness came tumbling out of her. “I don’t recall you as someone who would care about something that bothers me,” she shot, “let alone make me cry.”

Draco felt like an enemy to himself, to his true desires. He had prevented himself from ever being anything to Hermione from the first moment he had made himself an enemy of Harry’s, and he had only created a further divide as the years dragged along. Now, after so many years, she would never see him as anything except a foe. 

Perhaps it's what he deserved. 

“You’d be surprised,” he said.

Old feelings came rising up within her -- a violent mix of pain, misunderstanding, and indignation -- and her eyes were menacing. “Doubtfully.”

“Give me the benefit of the doubt then.”

Hermione’s eyes faltered at his continued tenderness and lost their threatening gaze. Her lips parted in confusion or perhaps surprise, he couldn’t tell. She tore her eyes from his to look out the window into the night sky. “It doesn’t matter, does it?” she asked.

It was snowing outside the window. The sight of it reminded her of what she’d smelled in the love potion -- snow, of which was the same color as Draco’s hair and so alike his personality. He was cold all over, an unrelenting frigidity she was sure had frozen his heart over. And yet, the warmth of his words made her think that she was seeing his heart melt before her. She had always been sure that there was human emotions brimming beneath his hard exterior, but the affirmation of it still stunned her.

He took a few steps forward slowly, testing, but she didn’t object to the sound of his approaching footsteps. “What doesn’t?”

She chuckled darkly and turned her attention back to him. “Whether someone likes you back or not,” she found herself answering. Hermione didn’t know how she had gone from insulting him just moments before to confiding in him. “What a terrible thing to be worried about when we’re on the brink of a war.”

His mind reeled at the words as he realized she was speaking from experience. “I don’t think so,” he said. “I think the pain of not being loved back feels like the end of the world. It might as well be when it’s the right person.”

She blinked at him, at the susceptibility in his words, shocked at how open he was being with her. She thought perhaps he was speaking about Pansy Parkinson, his Slytherin housemate and classmate, but upon remembering how the girl acted around him, Hermione knew that couldn’t be true.  _ He couldn’t be speaking about  _ me, _ could he?  _ She could feel the flare in her cheeks at the thought.

Draco hung at every word she said, and he was finding it more difficult to breathe by the second. Incredibly, she offered him a small smile. “You seem like you’re speaking from experience there, Draco,” she said gently. “I don’t think that’s something you should be confiding in me about, being who we are to each other and all.”

Hermione began to pick at a loose thread on her sweater to avoid his gaze. It seemed to seep through her skin and see right through her. Draco took a leap of faith and closed the rest of the distance between them, taking a seat beside her. His shoulder brushed hers, feeling the warmth of his body through their layers of clothing, and she ignored the rush that coursed through her. Her face turned to his, but he didn’t meet her gaze. “And what are we to each other?” he asked.

Her face turned serious in thought, skimming past her memory to find a suitable answer. Draco had been cruel, as he always had for years, yes, but she couldn’t think of where they stood this year. She found herself unable to pinpoint a moment that he had anything unkind to say for the entirety of their sixth year. “Not enemies,” she answered. “Not friends either.”

He shut his eyes tightly, guilt twisting in his stomach. “I’m sorry,” he breathed out. He opened his eyes to look at her, but her attention was still preoccupied with the loose thread on her sweater. “I know how terrible I’ve been all these years to you, to Harry, and I’m sorry. The truth is I wouldn’t know what a true friend was even if they slapped me in the face.”

Hermione stifled a laugh. “Isn’t that the truth,” she teased.

Draco thought back to their third year when Hermione had dealt him a hard hand and slapped him across the face. He’d never forget the shock that rattled through him at the action, and then the overwhelming awe that came afterward. He had greatly underestimated her, and that proved to be more than true as the years continued.

He smiled. “I deserved that.”

She let go of the thread and turned her face toward his. “Were you speaking from experience when you said what you did?” she asked curiously.

His eyes searched hers, and his chest ached. Seeing her so up close nearly pained him. “Maybe,” he replied. “Were you talking about Potter or the other one when you said what you did?”

It was a pointless question to ask since he already knew the answer. He had noticed her lingering eyes over Ron Weasley as of late and their constant quarrels only seemed to prove the obvious. He still remembered the fiery itch in his chest during Quidditch practice when he’d realized her eyes followed Weasley and were absent from his emerald blur in the sky. Not that she had any reason to even look at him.

Hermione was taken aback by the bluntness in his question. She knew he was no stranger to such remarks, but it still managed to take her by surprise. She couldn’t help the nervous laugh that tumbled out of her mouth, nor the blush that rushed to her cheeks. She broke their gaze once again in an attempt to keep him from noticing her flustered expression. “That’s far more specific than my question,” she argued, noticing how much higher her voice had gotten in her nervousness, “and quite frankly, none of your business.”

“It’s Weasley then,” he said, and before she could argue, he continued, “Weasley is not the brightest student, I dare say, but no one is stupid enough to allow someone like you to slip through their fingers so easily, Hermione. Not even him.”

Hermione’s smile faded, and she couldn’t fight the desire to look at him after hearing such kind words. Did he truly think that way of her? He wasn’t looking at her. Instead, his face had turned to look towards the hallway in which he’d come. She took a moment to admire the way the moonlight touched his pale skin and hair, illuminating him as if he were an angel. She resisted the urge to reach out and touch the back of his neck and brush her fingertips along his hair. 

He felt her eyes on him, almost burning, and he finally turned his face towards hers. “Why are you being so nice to me?” she whispered.

Hermione found his eyes to be darker, wilder, as if he were on the cusp of a terrible mistake. The look in his eyes caused her heart to race. She didn’t dare speak.

Then Draco did the unthinkable. He leaned in and pressed his lips against hers. He waited for her to push him away, to yell at him, tell him all the vile things he already knew about himself. He anticipated it, even. But, in a moment of miracles, her hand curled against his neck and she kissed him back. Draco was sure he had died and gone to heaven somehow, though he was sure he was damned, but all he could think of in the moment was the fact that he was kissing Hermione Granger. And she was kissing him back. 

A part of Hermione, the more sensible and logical part of her, knew she should push him away, but another part of her emerged, one that didn’t care about what was sensible. His hand had lazily found its way to lay atop her knee as he leaned into her, and the touch of his skin against hers made her sure that he had lit her on fire from the inside out. Her body buzzed with awareness, suddenly aware of every touch of him against her. It was the first time she’d kissed a boy in her entire life, and never would she have thought her first would be Draco. And yet, the way his lips moved against her own, deliberate and precise, made her feel like she was both drowning and burning, and she couldn’t think of her first kiss being anyone else. 

Hermione’s lips were soft against his, a glimpse of heaven itself, and Draco was sure he was dying if he wasn’t dead already. His hand came up from her knee to cup her cheek, still slick with her shed tears, and he wished to be able to take every tear and sorrow of hers into him for him to bear in her place. He had grown accustomed to pain, and someone like Hermione, full of brilliance and light, should never have to endure any of it. Let it be his to suffer, heaven knew he deserved it. 

He leaned further into her in desperation to make use of every second he had in what felt like a stolen moment, one that felt like it would be snatched back from him at any second. He opened her mouth with his own, and the little gasp that escaped her left him dizzy. The touch of her lips against his seemed to dissipate his fears, eating away at all of his anxieties, as if she were the bright light driving out all the darkness driving him mad. Kissing Hermione was like a rebirth, a transformation, that washed over him entirely. Suddenly, Draco was sure he could make all the choices he thought he couldn’t, go down all the paths that seemed impossible, so long as she was by his side. 

It didn’t matter then, not Voldemort, not his family, not the dark destiny that he felt weighed down under. Surely he should be even more afraid now, but with Hermione, he felt nothing but rushing clarity. So long as he was with her, he was on the right path, no matter where it took them both.

Draco pulled away from her, and her eyes were a mix of shock and appreciation. Suddenly realizing what he’d done -- hell, what he’d  _ thought _ \-- he stood to his feet. Startled at the sudden change of character, he watched as her brows furrowed in confusion. His name ghosted past her lips and into the air, and Draco felt hot all over. The Dark Mark on his arm seemed to burn threateningly underneath his robes. “Goodnight, Granger,” he said, quickly turning on his heel and disappearing into the shadows.

Hermione’s mind was reeling by how swiftly the moment between them changed. Had she done something wrong? Had he realized he’d been making a mistake? She could barely process what had happened. Had she still not felt the ghost of his lips against hers, she would’ve thought she imagined the entire thing. 

He heard the shuffle of her feet as she rose to her feet. “Draco!” she called after him. Her voice cut through him, as swift and deadly as an arrow, but he forced his feet to keep moving forward. 

If Snape had somehow known what he’d thought, or even worse, had Voldemort, then not only was Draco already dead, but so was Granger. He was surely damned now, if he wasn’t already. What had he done?

But even as Draco walked away, back into darkness, he couldn’t say he regretted a single thing. 


End file.
